Emma eBook

He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own
influence. He had followed her into the shrubbery
with no idea of trying it. He had come, in his
anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s
engagement, with no selfish view, no view at all, but
of endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening, to
soothe or to counsel her.—­The rest had
been the work of the moment, the immediate effect of
what he heard, on his feelings. The delightful
assurance of her total indifference towards Frank
Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged
from him, had given birth to the hope, that, in time,
he might gain her affection himself;—­but
it had been no present hope—­he had only,
in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment,
aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt
to attach her.—­The superior hopes which
gradually opened were so much the more enchanting.—­
The affection, which he had been asking to be allowed
to create, if he could, was already his!—­Within
half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed
state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness,
that it could bear no other name.

Her change was equal.—­This one half-hour
had given to each the same precious certainty of being
beloved, had cleared from each the same degree of
ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.—­On his
side, there had been a long-standing jealousy, old
as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank
Churchill.—­He had been in love with Emma,
and jealous of Frank Churchill, from about the same
period, one sentiment having probably enlightened
him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank
Churchill that had taken him from the country.—­The
Box Hill party had decided him on going away.
He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted,
encouraged attentions.—­He had gone to learn
to be indifferent.—­ But he had gone to
a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness
in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable
a form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma—­differing
only in those striking inferiorities, which always
brought the other in brilliancy before him, for much
to have been done, even had his time been longer.—­He
had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day—­till
this very morning’s post had conveyed the history
of Jane Fairfax.—­Then, with the gladness
which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to
feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be
at all deserving Emma, was there so much fond solicitude,
so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no
longer. He had ridden home through the rain;
and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how
this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless
in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.

He had found her agitated and low.—­Frank
Churchill was a villain.—­ He heard her
declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s
character was not desperate.—­She was his
own Emma, by hand and word, when they returned into
the house; and if he could have thought of Frank Churchill
then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of
fellow.